


nothing will ever change

by nd_mindoir



Series: [brainstorm collection] a thousand cuts upon the soul [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt, F/F, Psychological Trauma, Slice of Life, Suicide, This is no complete story, World of Warcraft: Wrath of the Lich King, only brainstorming, sylvaina
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-17 04:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20614736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nd_mindoir/pseuds/nd_mindoir
Summary: The Lich King lies dead to their feet but does that automatically grant peace of the mind?





	nothing will ever change

**Author's Note:**

> This one-shot is a draft, simple brainstorming done by a friend and me. It is not proof-read in any way!
> 
> We think about writing a Sylvaina story and are gathering ideas that might or might not make it into the story later if we ever decide to write it. The rough outline is that Jaina and Sylvanas knew each other before WC3. Jaina thought her dead until WotLK and Sylvanas doesn't truly remember their relationship. The story would begin in WotLK and more or less follow canon from there on.

Icecrown Citadel, Northrend

The wind is cold and biting so far up in the north and the sky. It whirls hair and robes around, casting its owner into an eerie shadow. Snow falls down onto the tower and the lands below as a crimson gaze stares through the darkness towards the horizon.

It's over. It really is over as she stands at the rim of the tower with hundreds of feet between herself and the ground. The traitorous king lies dead behind her, his shattered sword at his feet, his crown on a new man frozen into the throne.

For years his voice was a constant in her head, a whisper at all times. Ordering her around and later, once she was able to sever his hold over her, alternating between coercing her back into his grasp and tormenting her for escaping. It was like teeth grinding on gravel, hurting and aching and driving her mad.

She expected it to be gone, expected it to leave her alone once its owner perished from this world, but instead something worse came to the surface; A mind that is occupied by nothing but herself. It would be a blessing, had it not opened the path to things much crueler than the voice of the Lich King. Only now she realizes the meaning, the reason to the him talking to her in her thoughts as if his words were her own. It was like a drug, hiding away the pain that plagued her very soul since the day Frostmourne was buried into her body.

And now, with the voice gone, she feels it again. The pain of her death, the very last breath she ever took and actually needed rather than taking it out of habit or some weird sentimental reasons. She hears her own screams of pain and rage as he took her soul and tortured it, flayed it, and formed it into his servant. It feels like a thousand sharp cuts, not upon her skin, but within her very mind. It was always there, she knows, always lurking, but hidden beneath words that caused the very blood of his enemies to freeze.

But there is something else, too. Beneath the pain. It was beneath his voice, already, but seemed farther away, harder to reach. It's a stark contrast to everything else surrounding her undeath; soft, soothing, reassuring. Familiar, somehow, but she could never understand why. Not until Northrend, not until Dalaran.

She turns her head slightly, her eyes away from the horizon and instead upon the human figures that talk in low voices, standing at the other side of the spire. When she saw her for the first time, it suddenly made sense, the unclear mash of words became coherent sentences and connected to the face. She remembered, somewhere deep within her, who she was, but to place her was still hard. When she was alive this human was important to her, that much she could grasp, but why she could not tell. She remembered the feeling of the blonde strands, but not running her fingers through them. She remembered her smile and laugh, but not why they were directed to her.

They ran into each other by chance, she just arrived in Dalaran with few of her Dark Rangers and walked from Krasus's Landing to Sunreaver's Sanctuary when she spotted her standing next to a couple of Kirin Tor, deep in conversation. Usually, she would walk right past the group, not caring for them ever since she died. But as soon as her eyes landed on the golden hair and blue eyes, the soothing voice in her mind beneath Arthas' rambling became strong enough to be pushed to her mind's front.

Suddenly, the human turned her head and her gaze met the burning crimson of the Banshee Queen. She heard her gasp, saw the eyes widen. Pain and hope mixing in the irises as the rest of her companions became nothing but background noise.

“Dark Lady.”

Sylvanas shakes her head to clear out the memory. Only now that Anya has spoken next to her she realizes the way she stares at the human mage across the spire, and that she looks right back at her, her gaze the same mixture of sadness and hope as in Dalaran, only this time Sylvanas knows why, knows what they once shared, knows what the human still feels. And yet, they don't speak. After a few more seconds, Jaina merely averts her eyes and follows Tirion Fordring and the rest of the Alliance Crusaders out of sight and reach.

And now, with the memory and visual gone once more, the pain returns to her mind, the screams fill her ears.

“We are awaiting your orders, Dark Lady”, Anya pushes once more.

The Banshee sighs, the sound as usual accompanied by the surreal echo. She moves her gaze across the spire to where the remainders of her entourage are gathered around, standing stock still as they wait for her to speak.

“Return with Saurfang”, Sylvanas says, her voice is barely more than a whisper. “I trust you to lead well in my absence.”

For a moment, Anya looks like she wants to say something, a silent protest on the tip of her tongue, a question regarding her plans, why she would want to stay in a place that holds nothing but pain for any of the Forsaken, but eventually she relents.

“As the Dark Lady commands”, she inclines her head in a dutiful nod and turns to the others.

Soon, they're all filed out and the only ones left are two corpses, one lying on the ground, the other standing above it, staring down with fire in her eyes.

“Nothing has changed”, she whispers into the storm, to the dead man as much as to herself. "After my death."

She drops her bow with a clatter, clenches and unclenches her leather clad fingers a few times, then removes her quiver as well. The arrows scatter out of it as it hits the ground.

“The torture.”

She removes her cowl, drags it slowly over her ears and runs a hand through her long pale hair. The strands are brittle, dead like the rest of her, but never break due to the dark magic that runs through her veins instead of blood to keep her functioning.

“Your wretched commands.”

She unclasps the cloak and the thick cloth glides from her shoulders. Instead of piling to her feet, the wind carries it off the spire and it sails towards the ground.

“This is all I wanted.”

She kneels down, reaches out to the shattered blade. The souls are gone, the weapon is empty, it has no pull anymore, it doesn't reach out to her like it used to, and yet, in her mind, she hears it whisper and herself scream.

“All I thrived.”

She pulls back and tightens her hand in a fist once more, her eyes move to the face that tortured her since Quel'Thalas fell under her protection. She sneers at him and bares her fangs.

“And yet, nothing changed.”

She gets back to her feet and walks away from the dead king towards the edge of the spire. She can see The Skybreaker and Orgrim's Hammer hover in the air, far enough apart to not break into another battle. Looking down, she sees the forces of Alliance and Horde, kept separate by their banners. The truce is tense and won’t hold long, everyone feels it, everyone is ready to draw their weapon at any given moment. But from up here, Sylvanas doesn’t care for the infighting of the living.

She closes her eyes and takes a deep, unnecessary breath. It smells of cold, as much as cold can smell like anything. Like fresh snow mixed with death. The blue eyes come to her mind again, staring at her, wishing for something else, anything else to have happened. She hears the voice full of grief and barely hidden hope, speaking words she couldn't respond to, not anymore. She feels a warm hand brushing against her cold skin, burning her where it touches as it soothes the never-ending pain. A thousand cuts upon her souls.

“Nothing will ever change.”

She steps forward.

And falls.

**Author's Note:**

> ask me anything on [tumblr](https://nd-mindoir.tumblr.com/)


End file.
